


Not a Slave

by trashtrove (editoress)



Category: A Court of Thorns and Roses Series - Sarah J. Maas, Robin Hood (BBC 2006)
Genre: F/M, fae harem
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-04-26
Updated: 2018-05-31
Packaged: 2018-06-04 17:35:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 11,911
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6667999
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/editoress/pseuds/trashtrove
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Human slaves are forbidden, but Lord Rhysand is not opposed to making a deal of servitude. When he catches Victoria lost in his lands, she agrees to serve him for a time in exchange for safe passage home. She's not alone, and when she has to work alongside the withdrawn, angry Guy of Gisborne, something dangerous sparks between them. The Fae are not known for sharing.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Deal

**Author's Note:**

> For Victoria. As dramatic and full of extremes as she is, she is my constant and I would not do without her.

"You cannot keep doing this."

The words were bitten out, hot with anger.  They were the hard iron of authority.  The growl they were delivered in would have caused most beings of this realm or any other to shrink back.

Rhysand only smiled.  "If I had a holding for every time I heard that, I would own all of Prythian by now."

"We _can't keep humans as slaves_.  This isn't a laughing matter."  Tamlin bared his teeth.  "It's—"

"It's _my_ matter," Rhysand interrupted.  He didn't raise his voice, but it became sharper around the edges.  This time his smile showed teeth, too, and despite the ease of the gesture, it looked even less friendly than Tamlin's snarl.  "Your concern is really, truly touching, Tamlin.  My heart is positively melting.  Now would you mind taking it elsewhere?"

Tamlin's glare was molten gold.  After a long moment, he said, "Fine.  But if you're caught—"

"Oh, _please_."  Rhysand propped his chin in his hand and made a shooing motion.  "I was never coming to you for help, anyway.  Go on."

With a final disapproving look, Tamlin vanished with a sound like pale sunlight.  Rhysand's mouth briefly turned down as if he'd smelled something foul.  But a moment later he was back to his easy smile, the smile of remembering a private joke.

"Human slaves, eh?" he purred, and his eyes shone like cold, cold stars.

* * *

Victoria woke up in a cell.

It was a luxurious cell.  The bed was comfortable, and the window was wide, and the every furnishing was etched with elegant designs.  It looked in every way like a bedroom, but Victoria knew it for what it was.  If she couldn't come and go as she wanted, it was a prison.

Victoria had always wanted to see Prythian, but the wonder had soon faded in the face of how lost she was.  She hadn't expected that.  She _certainly_ hadn't expected to run into a being of all shadow and teeth.

_"Of course I can get you home.  But it just so happens that I need a little help around my court.  Why don't we make a trade?  You work for me—not for long, don't look so alarmed—and I show you the way back to your own realm.  Once the contract is complete, of course.  That is, unless you'd rather wander the foothills until something less civil comes along."_

Victoria had argued, of course, but she had no ammunition, no idea where she was or how to get where she wanted.  She still knew so little _about_ Prythian.

_"So what you're suggesting is slavery."_

_"Is it really slavery if it's temporary?  Besides, you are getting something in return."_

_"Semantics.  No, actually, bullshit."_

She remembered wishing that he would stop smiling at her.  That thin, knowing, glittering smile had seemed to cut her thoughts short every time she had a line of argument.  That smile was the reason she had agreed, she told herself.  Not because he had a perfect face or deep violet eyes or because the one time he had touched her, his hands had held the strength of steel.  No, he had tricked her.

Victoria clutched at that thought as she tied her hair back and washed her face.  The fae high lord had tricked her, and one way or another, she would turn this deal in her favor, just to spite him.  And Victoria always found her way to what she wanted.

She was looking out the window when a velvet voice behind her said, "Oh, good.  You're already awake."

Rhysand stood in the doorway.  Shadows clung to him like a coat, but she could see his face—and that stupid, stupid smirk—with perfect clarity.  He strolled into the room as if he belonged there.

"What do you want, Rhysand?" Victoria asked imperiously.

The smile widened like a blade coming out of its sheath.  "Ah-ah-ah."  He put one cool finger on her lips.  "It's _Lord_ Rhysand to my servants, dearest mortal."  He tilted his head and withdrew his hand.  " _And_ they usually address me with respect, as a side note."

"For what reason have you decided to grace me with your _oh­_ -so-delightful presence, _Lord_ Rhysand?" she shot back without hesitation.

His voice took on a threateningly pleasant note.  "How do you like my palace?  It's a fine place to spend a few months, isn't it?"

"I hate it."

Strangely, that only seemed to brighten his mood.  "Good.  Because this isn't where you will be staying.  I need someone to help manage of my outlying holdings.  The human I put in charge there is a stubborn, inefficient mess."  He spread his hands mockingly.  "So here is your chance to stand up for your race."

Victoria eyed him thoughtfully.  "So I _won't_ be working directly under you?"

So quickly she couldn't follow his movement, he was standing far too close, violent eyes gleaming in delight.  "Well," he purred.  This time it was his thumb that brushed against her lips.  "I wouldn't say _that_."

* * *

Rhysand had her bathed and given several outfits' worth of what he called presentable clothes.  But it seemed she was not allowed to wear any of them until the servants had covered her in body paint, drawn in the same complex, swirling designs that seemed to be everywhere in Rhysand's estate.

"You see," Rhysand explained, a teasing edge to his otherwise matter-of-fact tone, "I dislike it when my servants... mingle.  Things may be different in your kingdoms, but here, if you work for me..."  His voice trailed off as his gaze glided, achingly slow, down her exposed body.  By the time Victoria worked up the defiance to meet his eyes again, he was offering her a needle-sharp grin.  "You are mine."

Victoria swallowed.  "I think it should be an easy rule to remember," Rhysand continued nonchalantly.  "But there are those who still forget—and thus, we have the body paint."

"What does it do?" Victoria asked, trying to determine whether any of the designs now on her skin were magic symbols.

"Oh, that."  He stepped closer so his hand could hover over her.  She could feel the slightest heat on her neck.  He whispered the answer to her conspiratorially.  "It's so I know if someone touches you."

An odd feeling, not entirely unpleasant, ran down Victoria's spine.  She got the idea.

Even once she was dressed—though given Rhysand's idea of servant wear, she used the term 'dressed' loosely—she felt exposed.  It only got worse once they went outside.  Victoria was only too glad to climb into a carriage, even if it meant sharing an enclosed space with her captor.

Rhysand was blessedly silent for the journey, but as far as she could tell, he never took his eyes off her.  Victoria defiantly met his gaze for as long as she could, and then she took to studying her body paint.  She was strongly considering smudging it just to offend him when the carriage came to a halt.

Rhysand stepped out and offered her a hand.  When she refused it, it slid onto the small of her back.  "If you insist," he murmured, laughter dancing underneath his words.

This place was cozy compared to Rhysand's grand estate—which was to say it was a mere three stories.  Dark stone cobbled pathways to high, sharp arches and doorways.  Rhysand guided her through the front door.  No matter how she discreetly sped up, his hand remained.

They stopped in the main hall.  Victoria tried in vain to pull her top up.  " _This_ is where you'll be staying," he announced.  Then he called, " _Gisborne_."

It wasn't loud, but it rippled through the air; she could feel it.  Even if there was no magic in her body paint, there was magic in that.  She imagined she could see it spreading through the whole structure.

A form appeared at the top of the stairs.  He was coming down toward them, but each step was slow and stiff.  As he approached, she realized it was because he was trying to resist.  It was there in the angle of his shoulders, the set of his jaw, and the fire flashing in his eyes.

The man who came to stand before them was superficially similar to Rhysand—sharp features, pale skin, and dark hair—but they were as different as night and day.  Where Rhysand was fluid and smugly graceful, Gisborne (for his name was the only thing a fae could have used against him like that) was all hard lines, as if his anger was all he had against the world.

"Oh, come now," Rhysand scolded lightly, "is that any way to answer a summons?"

Gisborne's jaw tightened.  "My apologies, Lord Rhysand," he growled.

Rhysand smiled viciously.  "No harm done," he decided.  His fingertips pushed Victoria forward.  "Gisborne, this is our newest volunteer.  I brought her to help you do what I've asked of you."

If Gisborne's eyes didn't soften when he looked at her, then at least they cleared of a little of their anger.  He nodded to her.

Rhysand's voice rumbled in her ear.  "Victoria, meet Guy of Gisborne."


	2. Paint

Victoria soon learned that the paint was not so easy to smudge.

She learned other things, of course.  The Night Court, true to its name, existed under an unending night.  She had guessed as much even before Rhysand found her, but it wasn't until after she arrived at the holding that her waking hours extended long enough to confirm it.  But though the sun did nothing more than skirt the horizon in an occasional glow, the stars made up for it.  They were dusted across the sky in every color imaginable.  Their light was thin but warm.  It was the moon that lit the landscape when it rose, bright white and impossibly close.  Night ruled this realm.

Guy of Gisborne was in charge of this holding, though that gave him no official title.  At first Victoria wondered why a High Lord would put a human in a place of authority, but the first time she saw him make a command, she understood.

"How quaint."  The fairy, dark red and reeking of smoke, stretched fine features into a grin as he turned to his companion.  "I hear a distant voice from far below."

The other laughed like shattering glass, and it only made Gisborne's shoulders straighter.  "Patrol," he repeated in the face of their amusement, that constant anger simmering just below the surface.  "Eastern border."

The fairy shrugged and eased to his feet.  "If we play along," he crooned, "do we get to play with you when Lord Rhysand's bored with you?"

" _Go_ ," Gisborne ground out.

"As you command," the fairies laughed as they slunk away.

It was a joke.  Gisborne's position was one long joke, the target of every mocking laugh in the estate.  It wasn't a job; it was a punishment.  And based on the hardness in his eyes and the set of his mouth, it was working.

Victoria knew nothing of her own duties in the holding.  And for the first couple of days, she learned nothing more of them.  For all that his responsibilities clearly grated on him, Gisborne didn't delegate any to her.  In fact, he didn't offer her a single command.  At first, Victoria had no complaints.  She was busy enough familiarizing herself with the ins and outs of the estate—its boundaries, its shortcuts, and most importantly, its residents.

On her third day, she was in the kitchen grabbing what would serve as dinner when someone tapped her on the shoulder and said, "'Scuse me."

She turned and was greeted with an honest face surrounded by light, unruly hair.  No wide black eyes, no sharp-toothed grin, no tint of magic—just another human.  A man about her height, perhaps a little shorter than her.  Most of all she was struck by the fact that he was the very antithesis of Gisborne.  He had none of the other man's anger, and his expression was open and friendly where Gisborne had not spoken a dozen words to her.

"You're the new lady, right?" the man continued.  "Of the household, I mean."

Victoria nodded.  "Yes."

His eyes widened.  "Well, then what are you doing in _here_?  Everyone with rank takes their meals in the dining room.  It's served and everything."

Of course—that was how things worked in holdings and estates and palaces.  She had known that, but it hadn't occurred to her, not really.  Victoria put supreme effort into _not blushing_ , but failed.  "Oh.  I didn't know.  I'm not exactly accustomed to being served dinner."

The man nodded sympathetically.  "Yeah, I mean, who is?  Don't worry about it.  Most of the time the only person fancy enough to eat there is Gisborne, but sometimes we get visitors.  Important fae passing through.  That sort of thing."

The blush wouldn't fade, but she felt a little better.  "Thanks," she said meaningfully.  "Um...?"

"Much," the man provided.

"Excuse me?"

"That's my name.  Much.  It's not much—I mean—bugger—"

"Much," Victoria repeated with as much of a straight face as she could maintain.  "Pleased to meet you."

"Yeah," Much agreed faintly, obviously still embarrassed.  "Everybody knows _your_ name.  Victoria, isn't it?"

She nodded, lips pursing in sudden thought.  "How many humans does Rhysand _have_?"

Much grimaced at the wording, but answered, "Three now, far as I know.  You, me, and Gisborne.  He thinks it's funny, I think."  He glanced nervously at the doorway and wrung his hands.  " _Anyway_ , you don't _have_ to take meals in the dining room.  I work in the kitchens here, so come by when you like.  Just thought you ought to know."

Victoria accepted the change in subject without protest—for now.  But she knew as well as anyone that the Treaty didn't allow fae to have human slaves.  If Rhysand was flaunting the rules this blatantly... maybe there was a better way out of this than serving out her sentence.

Speaking of which, there was another matter than she needed to get to the bottom of.

"When is dinner being served?" she asked, her tone all business.

"Er..."  Much squinted at the surrounding kitchen thoughtfully.  "Half an hour?"

It was just enough time.  Victoria went to her room to make sure her dress—such as it was—and hair were in good order.  There was nothing to do about the body paint.  She had expected it to rub off on its own by now, especially given the availability of daily bathing, but it seemed as pristine as when it had first been applied.  Now she didn't have time to discover a way to remove it.

She arrived at the dining room moments after the food did, which ensured that Gisborne had started eating by the time he noticed her.  He averted his eyes almost immediately.  "Victoria," he greeted.

"I thought I would join you for dinner this time," she said, taking the seat right across from his.  "Since we are technically the lord and lady of the holding."  She took up her knife and fork and began slicing up a steak.

One corner of his mouth pulled back.

"Do you disagree?" she pressed, leveling the knife at him.

"No, of course not," Gisborne replied, making a clear effort to soften the anger in his voice.  "Such as it is."

"So what I would like to do," she continued, then paused for a bite of steak—it was delicious, something she would have to relay to Much—"is what I've been _sent_ here to do.  Which is of course help you run the holding."

"I have _had_ my own holding," Gisborne growled.  His hands clenched into fists and his eyes blazed blue fire.  "My own lands.  And I managed them as best I could.  This is not that.  Our position is not a duty; it's an impossible task so the fae High Lord can watch us and _laugh_."

Victoria managed to tear her eyes away from the way his snarl showed teeth.  "I know," she told him.  She looked at him unflinchingly, meeting anger with determined sympathy.  "I noticed.  That doesn't mean I don't want to help."

His brows started to draw together, and he turned his attention to his food.

"I'm a hard worker," she declared.  "I learn fast—show me how to do something and I'll do it.  _And_ I follow direction well, the first time."

Gisborne shot her a look full of dark humor.  "That would be an improvement," he murmured.

Victoria smirked.

"Very well," Gisborne agreed, "though you may soon regret it."

"What do I need to know?"

Gisborne stabbed at his steak.  "We start tomorrow."

"Why not now?"

He paused with a bite halfway to his mouth, nostrils flaring.  " _Woman_ ," he began irritably.

Good to know Rhysand and his cronies weren't the only ones who could rile his temper.  Victoria smiled.  "Tomorrow."

* * *

That evening, Victoria scrubbed at her arm in utter frustration.  She had tried taking the body paint off with water, soap, and even a little alcohol.  The attempts had reddened her skin, but the paint remained undisturbed.  If it hadn't been applied with brushes, she would have thought it a tattoo.  Growling loudly, she licked a finger and began her efforts anew.

"My, my, if you don't like the design, you need only say so."

Victoria sprang to her feet to find Rhysand lounging in the corner, shadows swirling around him.  "This is my room," she pointed out, steely.

"And my holding," he purred.

Not to be outdone, she pointed to her arm, still stubbornly holding the dark blue markings.  " _My body_."

He stalked closer, gaze exploring her body lazily.  Light caught on the pale planes of his face and changed the color of his eyes as he came closer—or perhaps that was something internal that brightened them to violet.  "You want the paint gone so badly?"

"Yes," Victoria snapped.

He casually swiped at her shoulder—and just like that, the paint smudged, showing blue on his fingers.  "All you had to do was ask."  One eyebrow ascended.  "Well?"

Victoria's jaw clenched.  "Would you be so kind as to get this ridiculous body paint off me, _my lord_?"

"So civil already.  I'll get you house-trained yet."  Rhysand tilted her head to the side, examining the thinning lines that extended up her neck.  "Very well," he allowed, and his voice was so low it sent a tremor through her bones, "if you insist."

Before Victoria could react, he dipped down and slid his tongue across her neck.

She gasped, heart jumping in surprise, but Rhysand was unaffected.  The tip of his tongue stroked her neck in lapping motions.  His lips closed to turn it into a kiss.  Victoria distantly felt the edge of her bed bump against the back of her knees.  She tipped backwards, and Rhysand slowed her fall with a hand behind her neck.  Even so she fell, landing back against the mattress.  He leaned over her wickedly, one knee landing between her legs.

"Don't go anywhere quite yet, darling," he purred.  He ran one hand along the underside of her arm, forcing it above her head and pinning it there.  His smile gleamed in the darkness and he closed the distance between them.  "We have a lot of ground to cover."


	3. Lady of the House

Victoria awoke alone and covered in pristine, overlapping swirls of dark blue paint.

Sucking in a breath, she ripped the sheets off the bed to reveal that the infuriating paint extended over her whole body, just as if Rhysand had never gotten rid of it.  The High Lord was nowhere to be seen.  She had no idea how he had reapplied the paint while she slept, but she had no doubt he'd done it just to anger her.

"Ugh!" Victoria snarled.  She got to her feet and stormed over to her vanity.  Oh, if the high fae wanted her anger, he would _get it_.  She stood before the mirror and scowled at her reflection, painted up like a doll.  She might have doubted that she had ever done away with it to begin with.

She might have doubted—if she hadn't had such vivid memories of Rhysand removing every single brush stroke from her skin.

Her fingers trailed thoughtfully down from her collarbone, remembering.  She would make him pay, all right.  She had learned a thing or two about _him_ last night, tricks she could use in her favor.  Let him see how he liked a taste of his own medicine.

A hollow ache in her stomach reminded her that breakfast came before vengeance.  Victoria pulled her hair into a presentable knot, slipped on a loose, light dress, and went downstairs.

Moonlight shone silver into the bustle of the kitchens.  Eternal night did not stop the estate from having a kind of morning.  Their cycle followed the arc of the moon.  Victoria appreciated the schedule, but her skin thirsted for true sunlight.  She wondered whether she could arrange a trip to another court.  It wasn't as though she had much to do here.

She spotted Much in the crowd, his head bobbing as he jogged from one end of the kitchen to the other.   He shouted warnings as he passed by with a tray of steaming pastries.  One of the ember-red, smoky fairies that so loved to torment Gisborne knocked his shoulder as he passed, spilling pastries everywhere and pushing Much into a table.  Victoria pursed her lips.  She was prepared to put the fear of mortals into the fairy when Much whirled around and yelled at the fairy's retreating back, " _Watch where you're going, you—you undersized chimney!_ "  He threw a pastry at the fairy and missed completely.

Much ducked down under the table to gather the fallen pastries.  Victoria waited until he was out of sight to laugh, her dark mood dissipating.  She weaved her way to him.  "Good morning, Much."

Much popped to his feet, a stepped-on pastry raised threateningly in one hand.  He grinned sheepishly when he saw her.  "Oh, yeah, good morning."  He squinted at her.  "Did you sleep well?  You look _really_ rested."

Victoria managed by some miracle to keep a straight face and waved her hand noncommittally.

"Look at this mess!" he said despairingly.  He put his hands on his hips and stared down at the floor.  "Does anyone want to just wave their hand and get rid of all this?" he called to the room at large.  "Just vanish it into thin air?  Anybody?"  Unkind laughter rippled around the kitchen, and Much huffed.  "I wish I was a fae," he confided to Victoria.  "Then I wouldn't have to do any work, either."

Victoria had planned to be patient and careful in this strange land, but then again, she always said that, and here she was trapped in servitude all the way in Prythian.  She couldn't seem to find it in herself not to trust Much.  "I'll help you," she offered.  She crouched down and started picking up flaky buns with both hands.

"Hold on a minute!  Hold on!"  Much waved his hands, cheeks going pink.  "You're, you know, the lady of the house!  Stop that!  With all due respect," he added hastily.

"You said I could come by whenever I liked," Victoria shot back, "and take what food I wanted."

"Well _yes_ , but—"  He dragged the tray between them and started helping pile the ruined pastries on.  "You know that's not what I meant!"

Victoria grinned.  Much pulled an annoyed face at her but then beamed back anyway.  The kitchen staff continued flowing around them.  Two different fae nearly brushed past Victoria but sidestepped her at the last moment to give her room.  Her temper earlier must have given them pause.

"How in the world did you end up here, Much?" she asked.  He didn't fit in at all.  The Night Court was ruthless and bloodthirsty, and as far as she could tell, nothing was given freely.  There was none of that in Much.

"It's stupid," Much muttered.  He worked in silence for a few moments before blurting out, "He was always getting me into trouble!  Well, _now_ look where I am!"  His voice wobbled.

Victoria's brows drew together.  "What happened?"

Much shrugged, doing a terrible job of feigning indifference.  "My best mate.  He's always had terrible ideas, always rushing right off into trouble.  And of course I've got to come with him, because _someone's_ got to pull him out of the fire.  But it was always just dumb adventures.  Stuff we—well, he could laugh about it later, anyway.  But then he crossed the wall."  He sat back, arms resting on his knees.  "I mean, _I_ never wanted to come to Prythian.  But if _Robin_ was in Prythian, then of course I had to go."

Victoria knelt beside him.  "You didn't find him?"

"Nah.  He was long gone—escaped on his own.  I got lost in here and had to make a deal with Lord Rhysand.  He'll send me home in a year."  His face scrunched up in a scowl.  "And when I get there, I'm going to... I'm going to beat Robin to a pulp!"

"Do it," Victoria agreed vehemently.  She did not consider herself a violent person, but after only a day of knowing him, she would have gladly taken a swing at someone for Much's sake.

Much turned another shade of pink.  "What about you, then?"

"I thought I could make it in Prythian on my own."  She helped him steady the tray as he picked it up.  He followed behind her on their way to dump the spilled pastries.  Victoria was ready to take on any more troublemakers, but though they sneered at or ignored her, the fairies didn't bump into her.  She scowled and added, "I probably could have.  But his _lordship_ wanted to make a deal.  It sounds like the same deal you made."

"Well, it's not so bad," Much tried.  "At least it's not just you and a bunch of fae, right?"

"It could be worse," Victoria agreed, and Much beamed again.

A sharp, dangerous _thud_ shattered the busy noise of the kitchens, and silence fell.  Victoria spun around to see a knife half buried in the wood of a table.  Gisborne's hand was closed around the hilt, his knuckles showing white.  His burning gaze was on a tall, dark-skinned fairy with eyes like stars.  His voice was a low growl when he said, "I am _speaking to you_."

Victoria was already striding forward as the fairy tilted his head, shimmering white hair shifting with the movement.  She could see the disaster this promised to be, and she would not stand by without trying to divert it.  Gisborne released the knife to square his shoulders at the fairy.  "When _Lord Rhysand's_ guests arrive," Gisborne ground out, "they _will_ be greeted with a suitable feast.  Am I clear?"

"Human plaything," the fairy intoned.  Victoria weaved past a knot of observers and finally reached the conversation.  The fairy didn't even glance at her.  Instead he reached for the knife.  "You interrupted my—"

Victoria lunged for the knife, and to her surprise, the fairy actually stopped rather than touch her.  She wedged the blade out of the table.  "I suggest you do as Gisborne says," she snapped at him.  Gisborne's jaw tightened, and the fairy's bright gaze narrowed, but she was too busy being struck by a revelation to notice them.

The paint—annoying her wasn't its _only_ purpose.

"That's what Lord Rhysand wants, after all," she continued.  She stepped up to stand beside Gisborne, well within the fairy's reach.  "And don't we _all_ want him to get what he wants?"

The fairy leaned closer.  "I do not take disrespect from puppets.  If you—"

Victoria grasped the fairy's wrist and wiped her forearm against his palm.

The effect could not have been greater if she had threatened to stab him.  The fairy froze, staring wide-eyed at the blue paint smeared across his hand.  Victoria's arm was all blue streaks, impossible not to notice.  The fairies hadn't been avoiding her out of any kind of respect from her—they had been doing it out of fear of their high lord.

"Oops," Victoria crooned.  "That's too bad.  Lord Rhysand really liked my paint the way it was."

The fairy's panicked eyes met hers.

"I'm sure he'll understand," she went on coolly.  "I'd be glad to explain everything to him if you start cooperating."

His paint-smudged hand closed into a fist.  "I will have everything ready," he bit out.

Victoria waved as he departed, conscious of the stares directed at her.  She hoped the other fae of the estate were watching and learning from the experience.  She had no desire to repeat the performance.

What startled her was Gisborne's gaze when she turned to face him.  He was considering her with breathtaking intensity, weighing her actions with those lightning blue eyes.  Her heart skipped a beat when the anger in his expression cracked long enough for him to give her a small, genuine smile.

"You actually did it," he murmured.

She pressed her lips together, trying not to smile as widely as she wanted to.  "I told you I could help."


	4. Guest

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> After much debate, we've decided that this story will continue to be based off the first book and ignore the second one except for convenient bits.

Over the next two days, the mood of the whole estate changed.  The impending arrival of a party from the Dawn Court had thrown the place into a flurry of activity—but there was something more.  The holding was always busy, but normally its staff moved without any particular speed, and the halls were filled with murmured jokes and high, cruel laughter.  Now they moved with purpose.  And whenever they flagged, their gazes brushed over Victoria's smudged arm.

In Victoria's opinion, it was a vast improvement, second only to the fact that she was finally helping manage the place.  Gisborne oversaw the strategy of their preparations, and Victoria directed.

Admittedly, there were some things she did not consult Gisborne on.  At times she did not relay his orders with exact accuracy, but only because she had already pinpointed those for whom she would have to exaggerate to get anything out of them.  And in a fit of (fully justified) spite, she had appointed Much the head of the kitchens.  Much had squeaked in surprise before recovering—and declaring that yeah, that was right, these fae had better get used to listening to him now.  The fae had looked appalled, but no one had objected.  Victoria had been far too close for their comfort.

Surely Gisborne wouldn't object to a few adjustments either, she reasoned.  Not that she needed his approval.  Her understanding was that the two of them were equals when it came to running the holding.

When the time came, the estate was pristine.  There was a waiting feast fit for nobility, and everything was in place for the emissaries' brief stay.  Gisborne was waiting out front to greet their guests.  He was already frowning tightly when Victoria joined him.

Gisborne glanced over at her.  The dark clouds of inward thought in his gaze cleared into something bordering on amusement.  "You've been busy," he noted lowly.

She had.  But she adjusted her bracelet as if it were nothing.  "I was just making sure everyone was doing what they're supposed to."

Before Gisborne could reply, a carriage decked in shimmering rose and violet rolled into view.  Gold glinted here and there like the coming of the sun.  It was decadent, perhaps too much so, but Victoria missed the daylight so much that she didn't mind.

The lord and lady of the holding stood silently side by side as the carriage came to a halt and the staff hurried to take care of the horses.  The carriage door was opened, and a moment later a handful of high fae descended gracefully to the ground.  A male was clearly leading the group, but standing near him was a female.  It was hard to tell high fae age once they reached adulthood, but this girl's bright eyes and slight pout seemed young.

"Welcome to the Night Court," Gisborne said.

The high fae in the lead, likely the patriarch of the Hale family, narrowed his eyes slightly, but it was the girl who spoke up.  "Where is the lord of this estate?" she asked.

Gisborne's jaw tightened, and his voice was harder when he replied, "Right here."

"We are the lord and lady of his holding," Victoria clarified.

The girl's brows furrowed.  "Humans?  Is this some sort of joke?"

"Forgive my daughter," said the high fae standing before her.  Victoria felt a mild swell of respect for him until he continued, "Margis forgets that until we arrive at the Night Palace, we cannot expect to be hosted by true nobility."

"We'll see you to your rooms," Gisborne said flatly, and it was a great deal more polite than what had been on the tip of Victoria's tongue.

In fact, Victoria stormed up the stairs just ahead of the high fae and spent the entire way fighting the urge to point out that from what she had learned, the Hales weren't so noble, either.  They had some status in the Dawn Court, but nothing that would have afforded them the attitudes they were displaying.

"You manage the estate, mortal?" Margis asked.  Her curious but defiant gaze was on Gisborne.

"We do," Gisborne answered shortly.

When he did not turn to look at her, she stepped up to walk almost beside him.  "Then I would say Lord Rhysand has been unusually generous to you."

Gisborne ground his teeth wordlessly.  Victoria muttered, "What _wouldn't_ you say?"

"You are ungrateful," Margis insisted, "because you haven't taken the time to understand.  Once upon a time humans were treated like chattel.  Now you can live in peace, and when you do come to Prythian, you are given opportunities most humans would only dream of.  Even Hybern is changing."

A jolt of inspiration overrode Victoria's fantasies of kicking Margis down the stairs.  She did not often get the chance to learn more about Prythian and its happenings.  "Why do you say that?"

Margis's father spoke up.  "Don't you know _why_ we are going to the Night Palace?"

"High Lord Rhysand," Gisborne answered in his best diplomatic tone, which was no good at all, "is hosting a gathering."

"I see you were told only as much as you needed to know."

The high fae stopped before the door to their suite.  Victoria ran an eye over what they could see of the interior.  It was elegant, and more importantly, it was faultlessly clean.  The staff had done their job.  "Enjoy your stay," Victoria offered—perhaps a little too adamantly, because one of the Hales twitched away from her.

As the fae and humans parted company, the Hale patriarch added, "In any case—Lord Rhysand is throwing a party to welcome a Hybern emissary to the Night Court.  Amarantha."

* * *

Victoria sat nursing a glass of dark wine.  Faerie wine was exquisite, especially this variety—rich with the bitter smack of wood.  But at the moment she was too occupied with her thoughts to notice.

"The lords and ladies of sunrise all tucked in, then?"

Victoria blinked and looked up.  "What?"

Much settled in across from her and took a delicate sip of piping hot chocolate.  The dinner for the guests had been presented, eaten, and cleaned up; now the kitchens were all but empty.  Most of the faeries were either asleep or prowling about whatever nightly nonsense they got up to.  Victoria was enjoying the quiet, and she was grateful for the fact that no one else was around to see Much's chocolate milk mustache.

"Our noble guests," he prompted.

"Oh!  Yes."  Victoria downed another swallow of wine.  "Finally."

"That bad?" Much asked sympathetically.

"The daughter keeps trying to convince us that we should be grateful that Lord Rhysand is _so_ nice to us," she seethed.  "And she watches Gisborne like—I don't know!  It's like she's _trying_ to pick a fight!  And I am this close—"  She shook her thumb and forefinger, held a hair's width apart, in Much's face.  "I am going to _throttle_ her."

"Best not say that too loudly," rumbled a voice behind her.  Gisborne appeared at her shoulder and sat down next to her, brows dangerously low.  "Their hearing is sharp."

Much nodded sagely.  "On account of the ears," he agreed.  Gisborne closed his eyes briefly and pinched the bridge of his nose.

Victoria set her glass down and folded her hands, all business.  "What should I know about Hybern?"

Gisborne regarded her steadily for a few moments before replying, "Does it matter?"

"It could," she pointed out.

He raised an eyebrow.

Victoria pursed her lips but admitted, "I don't like not being told things.  It just makes me want to find out what's going on."

The corners of his eyes tightened in a glimmer of a smile.  "I know only a little."

"Hybern bad," Much explained with an exaggerated thumbs-down gesture.

"Yes, _thank_ you, Much."  Gisborne glanced at the hallway before continuing, "I've heard that the fae of Hybern make those of Prythian look selfless and kind.  There are no humans there.  But I've only had Prythians' word on it."

An emissary from Hybern was coming, being greeted by some of the highest nobility of the continent.  "And now they want an alliance with Prythian," Victoria murmured.

"Birds of a feather," Much suggested, "er, enslave humans together, or something."

Her jaw tightened determinedly.  "All the more reason to eavesdrop on them," she decided.

Much choked on his hot chocolate.  "You're mad," Gisborne said softly.  But there was a note of awe in his voice.

"I'm just thinking ahead," she retorted crossly.  "If something awful is coming our way, wouldn't you want to know about it?"  She looked squarely at Gisborne.  "When you get back home, isn't there someone you'd want to warn?"

Pain and anger flashed across Gisborne's expression, and then he turned away, silent.  When Victoria turned her pleading gaze on Much, he was chewing on his lip uncertainly.  He shot a sideways look at Gisborne.  "I mean, yeah," he managed.  But then he, too, fell silent.

In the quiet, even the soft sound of a high fae appearing among them was like a crack of thunder.

Much fell out of his chair, and Victoria, much to her annoyance, spilled some of her wine.  Worse, when she looked up, it was Rhysand standing before them.  She scowled.

"So sorry to interrupt whatever profound assembly this is," Rhysand purred, "but I need a little favor."

Gisborne stood.  "Lord Rhysand, what—"

"Not you," Rhysand interrupted.  He strolled over to stand behind Victoria and ran one lazy finger down her spine.  "I'm afraid you aren't quite what I have in mind, Gisborne.  I need someone much more appealing, not to mention entertaining."  Victoria twisted around to see him watching her with a smirk, those violent eyes glittering.

"To do what?" she demanded.

The smirk widened into a predator's grin.  "Why, to come to my party, of course."


	5. The Party

Victoria rode toward the Night Palace with nothing but a swath of gossamer fabric and a pair of sandals.  Even seated safely in a carriage, it was not a comfortable state of affairs.  Rhysand's presence and the impending party combined to make it worse.

She wished she had been able to take Much up on his offer.  A couple of hours before their departure, she had returned to her room to get ready and found a bundled package and a note.  Much had packed her a few leftover cinnamon rolls ("in case they don't let you eat something," he'd explained on the note) and a sweater that was too lumpy and unfashionable to belong to anyone but him ("because all your dresses look cold").  Unfortunately, while Victoria didn't know what a party hosted by Rhysand might look like, she doubted she would be allowed in while wearing an oversized sweater and eating lukewarm pastries.

Right now, that image was the only thing keeping her sane.  Otherwise, she would be forced to engage Rhysand in conversation—or think about Gisborne's stormy attitude just before she'd left.

It was so _frustrating_.  Hadn't she proven beyond a doubt that they could work together?  She had believed they had come to an understanding of sorts in the past couple of days.  But since Rhysand's announcement that she was to join him at the palace, Gisborne had ignored her at every turn.  And when she cornered him to demand an explanation, he just snarled at her.  It was almost enough to make her glad she was getting out of the estate for an evening.

Even so, when the carriage pulled to a halt, Victoria crossed her arms over her chest in a fit of resentment and no small amount of dread.

"Don't hide the view, sweetling," Rhysand purred.

Victoria thought about giving him a detailed view of a particular finger but settled for meeting his gaze while blatantly ignoring his command.

Rhysand clicked his tongue lightly at her, but the carriage door opened before he could pursue the subject.  He dropped gracefully to the ground and stepped to one side, allowing her a full view of his palace.

It was amazing.

Victoria had seen the Night Palace before, but not like this.  Miniature constellations trailed along the towers and arches.  Pale flowers glowed like moonlight around the grounds.  She could see the light of a fire inside, and the smoke mixed with the clear smell of a winter night.  Victoria was glad that the chill didn't come with it.  Even mild as it was, the breeze drifted right through her flimsy excuse for a dress.

"Why _exactly_ do you need me here?" she asked as Rhysand guided her down from the carriage.

"It's too entertaining to pass up," he replied.  He slipped an arm around her waist as soon as she was close enough.  His eyes slipped over her figure.  "You look _delicious_."

"Am I an _hors d'oeuvre_?" she asked sharply.

"I'm certainly expecting you to whet a few appetites."  He pulled her forward.  "What do you say we liven up this event with some desperate envy?"

The party had already started.  Victoria could tell that much by the noise even before they walked in.  It was a cacophony.  Some voices scraped so deep that she felt them in her chest; the whoosh of wings passed overhead; something on an upper floor shrieked like scratched glass.  It was worse inside.  The dancing firelight played tricks with the shadows, and so many of the night fae were darkly colored already.  She would never have admitted it aloud, but Victoria was grateful for the body paint.  Whatever else happened, she had some protection from being touched.  She was certainly getting attention.  Everyone looked to Rhysand, of course, but a hundred inhuman gazes then turned to her.  She stared them down.  Only once most of them had looked away did she drop her gaze to the floor, where her distorted shadows flickered in the wake of the light.

She stopped to look again.  Two shadows?

Suddenly one of them rose up toward her.  She leapt back, feet planted wide, ready to take a swing at the twisted form of darkness that was suddenly before her.

"Evening, Lord Rhysand," the shadow crackled.

Rhysand wasn't laughing, not quite, but he gave Victoria a smug glance before replying.  "Quite the appearance."  Victoria's face burned, and she slowly dropped her defensive stance.

"I try, my lord."  The standing shadow bent curiously around Victoria, who watched it closely.  "The general is in the west garden."

Rhysand sighed deeply.  "I assume she's just standing there waiting to be acknowledged.  Trust a Hybern fae to make life dull."  He tapped a finger against his lower lip.  "Do you suppose it would start another war if I ignored her?"

The shadow wavered uncertainly.

"Never mind."  Rhysand's raised an eyebrow at Victoria.  "Perhaps I should find you a new escort for the time being."

The shadow leaned in, and it wasn't the only night creature to take a sudden interest.  Victoria swallowed.  "Certainly," she managed.

His eyes glittered.  "Be grateful.  I'm saving you from a terrible bore."

She glared for all she was worth.  "Thanks," she growled through gritted teeth.  Fantastic.  She was turning into Gisborne in a dress.

Rhysand lifted his chin.  "Bastus!" he called.

Victoria didn't hear anyone approach so much as she got the impression of clipping hooves and laughter.  When she looked over, there was another fae standing before them.  He had dusky skin, roguishly long dark hair, and startlingly ocean-blue eyes.  "Rhys!" he cried with a wide, sharp grin.  He tilted his head at Victoria, and she saw that his eyes were entirely blue—no whites, no pupils, just deep pools.  "Tell me you brought someone fun."

"As if I would have any other kind of guest.  Entertain Victoria for a while, won't you, cousin?"

Bastus was already bowing over her hand.  "Bastus, Prince of Twilight," he announced.

"He's a bastard," Rhysand corrected.  "An unfortunate cross between the Night and Dawn Courts."

"And thus a ruler of my own one-fae realm," Bastus shot back without rancor.  He grinned at Victoria, and it was a dangerous, charming thing.  "But you can call me Bast, and you can call my name as many times as you like."

"If you touch her, I'll cut off your thumbs and string you from the tower by your heels," Rhysand said mildly.

Bast took Victoria's hand and smoothly drew her away from Rhysand.  "Why, cousin, you told me to entertain her!"  Laughing, he pulled her through the crowd before Rhysand could respond.

They escaped into a central hall.  Low, rhythmic music thrummed through the air, and in the corner, someone was singing, high and smooth and fast.  It was enticing, and the way the fae around her were weaving and spinning, they felt it, too.  Bast swept into a low bow.  "May I have this dance, lady?"

Victoria decided she liked him already.  His grin was teasing, but not mocking, and it wasn't every day a fae prince bowed to her.  She nodded.

She didn't know how long they danced.  It was a blur of motion.  Victoria swayed and rolled while Bast leapt around her, laughing wildly.  Despite his words to Rhysand, he didn't touch her, and none of the other fae even came close.  The music propelled her onward; it mesmerized her as much as it made her feel mesmerizing.  It was only when the song ended that she came back to herself.

Bast leaned in close.  "Have you ever had faerie wine?  You dance like it."

"I don't think so," Rhysand's voice purred from behind her.  Victoria turned around and came nearly face to face with him.  He locked gazes with her for a moment, then looked over her shoulder.  "I'll take her from here, Bast.  _Especially_ if you're going to get her drunk."

"Rhys!" Bast gasped.  Victoria tried to take a step away from Rhysand to face them both, but Rhysand snaked his arm around her waist again.  She got turned around just in time to see Bast shaking his head sadly.  "Your station is making you a bore."

Rhysand waved his free hand in a shooing motion.  "Go shame some other family, you pest."

"As the High Lord commands," Bast intoned.  With a last wink at Victoria, he was gone.

Victoria noted the slight smile on Rhysand's face, and in the end she kept her comments to herself.  But the idea of him being genuinely fond of anybody was a new one.  Instead, she said, "Are you done being responsible, then?"

His answering smile was sharp.  "Yes.  And I doubt Hybern's emissary will stoop to joining us, so that leaves you and me to our evening of entertainment."  He tugged her closer.  "How shall we begin?"

Victoria narrowed her eyes defiantly.  "First off, you can go—"

"Human slaves, Rhysand?" asked a clear, cunning voice.

Rhysand turned and, to Victoria's dread, executed something that was almost a shallow bow.  Who would _Rhysand_ bow to, even sardonically?  Her answer came when he straightened with an unfriendly, razor-sharp smile and said, "Amarantha.  What a _pleasure_ to see you've actually joined the party."

So this was Amarantha, Hybern's vengeful general.  She looked less like a warrior and more like fae royalty, with striking features and long, red-gold hair.  She was absolutely beautiful, but it didn't quite take, like a dancing fire that didn't offer any heat.  Her smile rivaled Rhysand's.  "And here I thought the Night Court was too noble for such practices.  What a pleasant surprise to find you know humanity's place as well as the rest of us."

Victoria ground her teeth together.  She felt she could have gone at the woman with her bare hands, high fae or no.  But she didn't argue.  She knew better—not because of the warning way Rhysand's fingers dug into her waist, but of her own good judgment.  But Amarantha didn't so much as spare her another glance.

"A shame it's such a hassle to teach humans that," Rhysand replied conversationally.  There was absolutely nothing in his tone—no mockery, no sarcasm, no arrogance.  Victoria stood straight and still and tried not to attract attention.

"Indeed."  Amarantha studied him through half-lidded eyes.  At last, she said, "Be careful with your pets, Rhysand.  As my kingdom learned, one never knows what treachery they're capable of."


	6. Questions

They rode back to the estate in silence.

Victoria stared out the window of the carriage, lips pursed.  Beneath her facade of disinterest, her stomach churned as she waited for Rhysand to say something.  But the high fae seethed wordlessly, eyes flashing at the scenery passing by outside the opposite window.  The darkness around him shifted restlessly.  At times it seemed to coalesce into dark claws at his fingertips, but every time she looked over, his hands were perfectly normal.  Perhaps it was a trick of the light, but she doubted it.

The rest of the party had not gone as planned.

With Amarantha's presence, Victoria had seen her chance to investigate the fae scheme she suspected was brewing.  The Night Court was bad enough; Hybern's high command could only be worse.  If humanity was going to suffer, Victoria wanted to know about it.  And she had known better than to approach Amarantha directly.  She wouldn't have dared.  Instead, she watched who the general spoke to and for how long.  After a few hours, she had felt confident enough to make a few indirect inquiries of her own, especially once she stopped seeing Amarantha around.

Rhysand had not been pleased.

All in all, the best that Victoria could say for the evening was that the festivities were finally over, even if she suspected her night was not finished yet.  She was certain Rhysand was going to show her the full consequences of angering him.  Waiting on the blow to fall was shredding her nerves.

But the silence followed them all the way back to the estate.  As soon as she descended from the carriage, Rhysand pulled her close around the waist.  "You don't mind if I escort you upstairs, do you?" he purred.  It was his usual low, teasing tone, but his eyes gleamed dangerously and his fingers dug slightly into her side.  "Just to make sure you don't run into any more _trouble_."

"I'll be fine," she assured him flatly.  "But if that makes you feel better."

She had been trying to put on a polite, obedient front, but she knew even before he leaned in closer that she had failed.  He spoke almost into her ear.  "I think that would make things better for _everyone_."

Fae still roamed the estate at this late hour, but Victoria consoled herself with the fact that Gisborne and Much, at least, were humans who needed their rest.  They would not witness Rhysand parading her through the house, his long fingers leaving streaks of paint at her waist, across her bare back, on her arms.  Victoria kept her chin high and acted for all the world as though she were walking with the High Lord instead of being marched.

He didn't release her until they reached her bedroom.  When Victoria distanced herself from him and spun around, he was considering her with his head cocked to one side.

"If you'd rather I let Hybern have you," he said conversationally, "that can be arranged.  They're delighted with slaves, you know, especially since they slaughtered their own."

Victoria couldn't help a chill of fear, even as she kept her voice brave and steady.  "No, that—"

"Then perhaps you should be more careful about whose attention you catch."  His posture and voice remained careless, but his gaze was icy.

 _Because that's worked out so well for me_ , she wanted to say, especially since he had been rude enough to interrupt her.  But something more important occurred to her.  "So I am a slave."

Rhysand's head tilted forward.  "You're temporarily indentured," he corrected.  And unless she had imagined it, for the first time, he actually sounded _exasperated_.  "Working off a debt."

"In advance?"  This was more familiar ground.  The idea of Rhysand's anger had frightened her (made her a little nervous, she revised), but she could summon her own anger if he was just going to be an ass.

He slipped his hands into his pockets.  "It would have been a tad more difficult for you to work off your debt _after_ I took you home, don't you think?"

"I could have gotten home on my own," she shot back.

With two casual, strolling steps, he closed the distance between them.  "Then why did you accept?" he asked quietly.

"I don't know," she answered automatically.  Her mind was already on other things—namely, why Rhysand was acting this way.  Fae could be unpredictable, but she couldn't fathom a reason behind the quiet fury underlying his every move.  Part of her needed to know.  Another part of her wanted to never address it again.  Before she could lose her nerve, she asked, "Why are you so angry?"

His eyes narrowed, but from this close, she could see that he was not nearly as furious as before.  "Why am I angry that you tailed Amarantha's every move and started asking questions about her purpose in my court?" he drawled.

"I was just being social," Victoria said loftily.  "It's not as though she cares you have human slaves.  And I was only there to be looked at.  So what are you afraid of?"

"If I'm ever afraid of something, I'll let you know.  So that you can cower appropriately in terror."  Rhysand took her chin between his thumb and forefinger.  "You  didn't answer my question, dearest _mortal_.  Why did you accept?"

"You didn't answer mine, either," she retorted lowly.

"Yes, but I am the High Lord, and _you_ —"  He forced her chin up until they were mere inches apart.  "—are my servant.  Why did you stay?"

"Why do you care?"

Just as she thought his lips would meet hers, he leaned back and answered, "Curiosity."  Victoria stared at him.  Her frustration must have been obvious, because one corner of his mouth slipped up in a smirk.  He continued, "It's not every day I encounter something I haven't already figured out."

She hardly knew what part of that declaration annoyed her most.  "Are you saying the entire reason you're keeping me here is because you're _bored_?"

Rhysand hummed in agreement.

Victoria barely repressed an audible growl as she stormed away.

"Come now," he called after her, "is that such an insult?  It could be an honor, considering."

She was forced to stop by the less than bountiful dimensions of her room.  She folded her arms and glared at the wall.  "I'm not here to entertain you."

He followed her lazily.  "But you _do_ entertain me."  He swept her hair aside, brushing a line across the back of her neck.  She shivered.  He sighed lightly and murmured, "What a mess."

Victoria turned to face him, incredulous.  "What?"

He raised his eyebrows as though she were being ridiculous.  "The paint," he elaborated.  The back of his knuckle ran down her arm.  It hardly made a difference on the canvas of streaks and smudges her skin had become.  "It's a mess.  There's no saving it.  You'll need an entirely new application to prevent any more... _accidents_ with the staff."  His eyes gleamed.

She knew how Rhysand preferred to get rid of her body paint.  Her mouth tightened impatiently.  "Any more wisdom to impart, _Lord_ Rhysand?" she asked sarcastically.

He smiled.  "Just one more thing."

In the next instant, she was pressed against the wall.  It didn't hurt, not at first.  But as Rhysand pressed against her, the stone dug painfully into her shoulders and hips.  His thumb lay across her windpipe, keeping the back of her head against the wall.  His teeth tugged at her ear.  And then, in a low, velvet voice, his breath whispering in her ear, he said, "If you ever try to meddle in Hybern's affairs again without my permission, I will show you the Night Court meaning of torture.  I will put you through the most exquisite agony your body can survive.  When I fulfill my end of the bargain, no one will recognize what is left of you.  Understand?"

Victoria dragged in a breath, head and heart and core all pounding in time.  "Yes."

"But I much prefer our usual arrangement."  He nipped her ear again and then closed a kiss just below the corner of her jaw.  "Don't you?"

"Yes."

"Show me," he whispered.

With a parted mouth and angling of her hips, she showed him.  He slid over her like liquid night, teeth and nails catching to leave red behind where blue paint had been.  He pinned down her body by the hair and closed off her moans at the throat.  They didn't speak.  There was no need to.

When they were done, as the moon was rising, their questions remained unanswered.


	7. The Message

Victoria awoke unpleasantly exhausted but pleasantly sore.  She stretched lightly and slumped at once back into the depths of the bed.  She wondered how long she could get away with lying here.  It was hard to tell the time of day in constant night, but she suspected she had slept in.  Silvery moonlight drifted through her windows.  She lazily lifted her arm to examine it, how the moonlight shone against her tanned skin and the dark, intricately designed—

Ink smudges.

Victoria's chest warmed with a prelude to anger.  She sat up, suddenly alert.  She was not yet furious, but she was very prepared to be.  She flung the covers to the foot of the bed.

Her entire body was a tapestry of smears, handprints, and the swirls left behind by Rhysand's tongue.  Rhysand himself was nowhere to be found.  Victoria went to the tepid bath and sloshed water violently over her forearms.  But the paint was exactly as resilient as it had been when it was pristine.  She gave up with a long, high hiss that shaped itself into foul curses.

She had only _just_ gotten control of the estate with leveraged respect and a healthy amount of fear, and now Rhysand had left her looking like a used toy.  All the progress she had made would be lost as soon as she stepped out the door.  As much as she desperately wanted to throttle any fae that crossed her path, that was not a contest she would win.

A sweeping fury brought her through her morning routine.  She bathed, put up her hair, and dressed with murderous intent.  But nothing she did detracted from the obvious mess that licked its way around near every inch of her skin.  She glared at her reflection, chin angled up.  It was not an intimidating image.  If Rhysand had wanted to give her a day off, he could have just said so.

Still, she didn't return to bed.  She stood in the middle of her bedroom floor, staring at the mirror stubbornly.  She had no chance of running the estate like this.  The place had gone on this long without her; it could last a few more hours.  Besides, she wasn't sure she could face Much and Gisborne like this.  She could wait until Rhysand's joke had played out and he had the paint reapplied.

Who was she?  Was she a frightened mortal who waited on the high lord to dole out his judgment?  Or was she Victoria, current lady of the estate?  She saw what needed to be done and she got it _done_.  She cowed common fae and thwarted high lords at their own parties.  She gathered information to rebel against beings who believed themselves infinitely superior to humans, so much so that they barely bothered to notice them.  She was Victoria, and she _succeeded_ , damn it.

She was Victoria, and she held her head high as she walked out of her quarters and descended the stairs.

The currents of faeries slowed, chilling, when she appeared.  Eyes roved over her body.  Silence spread like ripples, waves of interrupted whispers filtering through the hall.

Victoria's jaw jutted out.  "Well?  Get back to work."

They did not obey, but neither did they protest.  Out of the corner of her eye, she saw a dark figure stumble into one of the side halls—and fae did not stumble.  She turned, but Gisborne was gone, and she had no time to go after him.  She had to remind the fae why they were afraid of her.

Victoria swept through the main hall, parting a cluster of small, watchful beings that glittered like dew.  She strode into the kitchen without slowing for the inevitable bustle.  A familiar pitch black fae with shining white hair jerked to avoid her, possibly out of habit.  Much was shouting orders from somewhere near the oven.

"Apples, I said, apples!  We can't eat cherry turnovers the next five thousand years!  That's right, I'm talking to you, high and mighty!"  High and mighty gave him a fearsome sneer, and Much put his hands up in a gesture of peace before turning to someone else.  "Ham's almost done, have you got the cheese?  Come on, you lot, lunch in half an hour!"

Victoria headed for her friend.  Even now her sour mood felt lifted—but there was no avoiding the fact she would have to explain this to him.  And then she was there, and Much looked up at her, and she ran out of time to rehearse.  "Oh," he began, "wow—"

A smoky voice murmured, "Looks like someone already had a slice."

She chose to believe they were talking about something else, _anything_ else, in the kitchen, but another voice chimed in, "Had the whole pie.  But the crumbs... look delicious."

Victoria spun around.  " _What?_ "

Much leapt to her side.  "Yeah, what'd you say to her?  That's the lady of the house!"

They moved in as a sudden ring of dark, unearthly bodies.  Inhuman creatures stared down at them from every side.  And they were all smiling.  Much shrank back against her but gallantly tried to stand in front of her all the same.  One of the faeries who had spoken leaned forward, making a sound like a crackling fire.  "Is she?" he asked.  He locked eyes with Victoria.  His voice lowered.  "I think she looks like a mortal morsel.  One thoroughly enjoyed."  He reached forward.  Much gulped.

"And?" Victoria demanded.

The faerie hesitated just long enough for her to continue.  She lowered her voice, too, just to show the fae didn't have a monopoly on theatricality.  "Lord Rhysand enjoyed me _very_ much," she agreed.  "You can all see just how _thoroughly_.  But if you imagine he is done with me..."  She stepped forward, well within the faerie's reach.  "Look at me and think about whether that's something you want to wager your life on."

The faerie's sharp fingers curled slowly into a fist, and he lowered his hand.

Victoria straightened and looked around the circle, meeting their dark, wild eyes.  "Look at me and think about whether you want to be _my enemy_."

The dark, starry-eyed faerie she had made an example of so long ago said, "Lord Rhysand will not protect you forever, mortal."

She scowled and reminded herself she wasn't likely to win a brawl, no matter how dirty she fought.  "When our deal is up, then you can try your luck.  Until then, do what I say."

The circle dissolved as suddenly as it had formed.  The faeries slunk back to their work, leaving Victoria and Much alone.  Much was wiping his sweaty palms on his apron and watching Victoria.

"Guess there's no point asking what happened," he said at last.

"No," she muttered, shrugging.

Much put his hands on his hips and peered around the kitchen.  Finally, he met her eyes again and said, "You look like the time I fell off my horse into a bunch of blueberry bushes."

To her surprise, she burst out laughing.

He beamed.  "There we are!"  He lowered his voice to half a whisper.  "I thought we were done for just now, you know.  Bloody hell, you're just as terrifying as one of them."

She smirked viciously.  "Thank you.  I had it handled, by the way.  You didn't have to get involved."

"Did too!" he replied, affronted.  "We've got to stick together!"

Much, she decided, would never suffer anything while she had a say in it.  She would get her hands on iron and ash if that was what it took to make sure he stayed unerringly happy.  She resisted giving him a hug in front of the whole kitchen staff.  "Thanks, Much."  Her eyes narrowed, her thoughts turning back to business.  "Speaking of, where's Gisborne?"

Much threw his hands up in the air.  "He's been in a snit.  Dunno where he's run off to now."

Victoria clicked her tongue.  "I'm going to find him."

"You sure?"  Much grimaced.  "You wouldn't rather avoid him until he isn't huffing like a dragon?"

She grinned.  "Much, I just bested a fae mob.  Do you think I'm afraid of Guy of Gisborne throwing a tantrum?"

* * *

Gisborne did not deign to show up for lunch.  Nor did he appear during the assigning of patrol duties that afternoon.  By that evening, Victoria had given up the pretense of hoping to run into him and was actively hunting the man down.  Her determination was such that any further thought of fae rebellion evaporated in her wake as she stormed around the estate and grounds.  She glimpsed him twice.  Once, he disappeared before she could approach.  The second time, she saw him clearly, snapping at a dew faerie.  The second time, he locked eyes with her for just a moment before he turned away and left.

Victoria was too agitated to have any patience with his moods.  She did not particularly care whether he _felt_ like talking to her; they needed to talk about this, and it was going to happen.

She finally found him in the study.  The usual smattering of papers was laid on the desk, but he was paying it no mind.  His hard gaze was boring into the wall.  She could almost see the flash of lightning in his blue eyes.

"Guy," she said.

He looked at her warily, as if she had him cornered—which, technically, she did.  He nodded shortly.

She pursed her lips.  "Have you been avoiding me?"

He exhaled.  "Not successfully."

"Let Much be the funny one."  When he didn't reply, she pressed, "Why?"

"Why?" he repeated, shoulders drawing tense and hands clenching with the obvious desire to hit something.  "Because I want to be left alone."  He stood, dropping any pretended interest in the papers on the desk.

"But—"

"Don't you have _superior_ company to keep?" he snarled.

Her mouth opened in an _o_ of outrage.  "You're jealous?  That's your excuse for being no use around the estate today?"

His face darkened like a storm front.  "I'm not of as much _use_ as you, my _lady_."

Heat pricked at Victoria's eyes, some rushing combination of fury and hurt that brought on tears.  She hated crying, especially when she was in an argument.  "You think I _asked_ to be painted and treated like a plaything.  You're blaming _me_ for this!"

"No."  Gisborne drew back unexpectedly and passed a hand over his face slowly.  When he spoke again, his voice was tight and carefully controlled.  "No.  I'm not angry with _you_.  I'm just... angry.  Always angry.  I'm sorry."

He moved to walk past her, but she caught him with a hand against his chest.  Even full of adrenaline and wild emotion, Victoria returned the favor of calming her voice.  "Why are you so... defensive all the time?" she asked.  He turned his head away, but didn't fight her touch.  "The fae are frustrating, but we'll go home someday.  The contracts won't last forever."

He didn't answer.

Her heart clenched.  "How long?" she asked.

He turned so that she could see his face, though he did not meet her eyes.  His expression was shadowed over, dark and hollow in the same way it had been the first moment she had seen him.  "I came here," he said at last, "to save the woman I loved.  But I wasn't alone."  He strained to keep the thunder from his voice.  "Another man who loved her reached her at the same time.  Lord Rhysand struck a bargain, offered us a way that we could all leave free.  She could only leave with one of us, and the other had to stay behind.  After that she had three months to return for him."

 _How long?_ she wanted to ask again.  She wanted to know whether he still had time, if there was still some way—

Gisborne closed his eyes.  The harsh edge to his words told her the answer.  "She has always chosen him.  But I thought she had enough love...  All she had to do was brave Prythian the way I had done for her, and I would be home."

"She never came back," Victoria realized aloud.

"And now it's too late."  He opened his eyes, and the rough, smoky anger returned to his voice.  "My sentence has no end."

He took her hand in his to pull it away from his chest.  In the same moment, he met her gaze, and she had an answer she hadn't thought to ask for.  His foul mood leading up to the party, his dark bitterness since—they were products of a different kind of fire burning in his eyes.  But it all flared into an anger as desperate and helpless as the one against his captors.

In the end, he left, and this time she let him.

* * *

Rhysand's shadowy servants were waiting in her rooms with a familiar set of supplies.  Her gaze flicked to the darker corners of the room, but the high lord himself was nowhere to be found.  It was a shame.  Victoria was overcome with frustration and pity and a thousand other things, and she would have liked someone to take it out on.

"Here to repaint me?" she asked sourly.

One of them bowed.  "Now that the message has been delivered."

Victoria let them wash away and reapply the paint without protest.  But all the while, her ideas for revenge were growing and growing and growing.


End file.
